Doctor:Lost
by Sherlocked Otaku no. 42
Summary: REDO! Sorry to those who liked this originally, but this is a rewrite. Same plot, same pairs. John tried to find something to heng onto now that Sherlock is, as he thinks, dead. Helping with cases might make him feel better. If only he knew he didn't have to wait much longer for his miracle. SLASh!Don't like,don't read.Has Mystrade, Johnlock,and mild Johncroft,just because. Enjoy!


Hey, guys, 'sup? If you were reading this before, I'm sorry to have deleted the original, but I wasn't liking it. Basically, this is the same plot, with the same pairings, but with a little more than I was originally giving it, so I had to rewrite the whole thing. If you weren't reading this before, don't worry about it, it's all good. As an extra warning, for those who didn't read it before, this is a slash. Eventual Johnlock and some Mystrade as well, and also slight Johncroft, but only because the older brother is using it to annoy Sherlock, and push him forward faster. Is that mean? Hm... Oh, well, anyways. Here is this story, and please enjoy!

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. Sigh...

Full summary: Three years. Three years is a long time, very long, and it has been very lonely. The marriage only lasted a year, he should have known it would. And now he was alone again, except for Greg, and Molly. But that was it. There would be no speaking to a certain government official ever again, he had established this. Anthea kept trying to mend things, though, for reasons he couldn't understand. It wasn't like she ever appeared to give a shit in the first place. Work. Work was dull. Heh. Dull. And once again, nothing would ever happen to him, not ever, and he knew it.

Well. That was what he had thought, in any case.

ch. 1: Dream of me

_His eyes were closed. He was cold. Something kept splashing against his ankles, and there was a metal object in his hands. He knew what it was, and he knew where he was. This was not the first time he had found himself here._

_Dammit. _

_He opened his eyes. Yup. There was a pool to his right. It turned into a waterfall halfway through, and that waterfall fell, not on any body of water, but on a street. A street on which were standing people, countless people, just looking up at him and watching, waiting in silence. The water in the pool splashed against him, being pushed about by a breeze he couldn't feel. It made not much sense at all, but that was fine. It didn't have to._

_And now he stood, arms out in front of him, holding a gun, pointing at a man who no one knew the whereabouts of. The blood had been his, yes, but there had been no body. Of course there had been no body. And Jim spoke, and John replied as he always did, and the dream played out in exactly the same way it always had._

"_Are you angry? That I took him away from you?" A pause, followed by a whispered, "I was, too."_

_This had never made any sense to him, but he wasn't about to say that. Instead, he said, "He was never anyones' to take."_

"_Wasn't he?"_

"_Nope."_

"_Well, he certainly wasn't yours. Unless..." He made a sort of 'oh my' face, grinning ridiculously. "Unless he was?"_

"_He was my friend."_

"_Oh, yes, of course. Your best friend, I imagine."_

"_You know he was. There isn't anything to imagine."_

_A sly laugh. "Oh, well, if you wanna put it _that _way..."_

"_Don't."_

"_Why, would it make you blush?"_

_He said nothing, just waited._

"_Face it, Johnny boy. We all know what you couldn't say to him. Pussy."_

"_There wasn't anything left to say."_

"_Oh, but there _was_. And now you can't say it, not even to your nice psychiatrist. So terribly sorry... Oh, wait... No, no I'm not."_

"_Enough!"_

_Jim pretended to jump, putting on a mock surprised expression. "Not so loud, dear, you'll only make them more interested."_

_He knew, without looking that his minds' rendition of the crowd below were, in fact, already interested, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. He could feel their eyes on him. He closed his eyes, shook his head, opened them again, only to find the man in front of him had come closer. He was only an inch away from the barrel of the gun in his shaking hands. He could shoot him. He _should_ shoot him. And words were echoed at him as he thought this, and he said them aloud._

"_What if I were to shoot you now?"_

"_Right now?"_

"_Right now."_

"_I would not be surprised in the least, to be honest with you, really I wouldn't. But I don't think you will."_

"_Won't I?"_

"_No, I don't think you can. Not you. Not when you know this will only happen again anyways. And certainly not when I might still be out and about while your boyfriend rots."_

"_He wasn't... Shut up, just shut up."_

"_I don't want to, not really. And you, my dear boy, cannot make me."_

_John pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. In fact, the gun was no longer there, and he was being slowly pushed to the edge of the building, baking away from the man coming closer to him. Why didn't he ever fight him in these dreams? Why couldn't he just..._

_The edge. It was right at his heels, and the roof of the building was crumbling beneath his feet. The pool was gone. Now it was just the roof of St. Barts'. He had his usual clothing on, a jumper and jeans, but his coat was now long and black and flapping about his knees. He wobbled, waving his arms._

_Jim grabbed him, held him so his lips were right next to his ear, and in it, he whispered, "You're all that's left now. A hollow, empty husk of a person. Maybe... You need a fall, too." And he straightened himself out, smiled wickedly, and said, "Good bye... Doctor Watson."_

_And he, and the roof were gone, and John fell._

He yelled out to no one in particular, as there was no one there to yell to, and sat up straight in his bed, drenched in sweat. Panting, he had a sudden, irrational thought, and sprang out of bed, dropping to his knees in front of the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he kept the gun, and threw everything in it around until he found it, picked it up, held it, and checked that it still had a clip in. And then, when he saw that it did, and that he was now on his bedroom floor, panting and sweating, he sighed, though whether it was from releif or something else he didn't know. And then he dropped his hands to his lap, leaned forward until his forehead was against the drawers, and tried his damnedest not to start crying.

Far away from the flat he was currently staying in, a body floated to the top of the Thames and just stayed there.


End file.
